


It's Our Time Now

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: AITE verse, All of the happiness for Laudanum, F/M, I'm gonna change you like a remix, M/M, Multi, Omega Twin birthdays, Smut, The opposite of all those other things that AITE was, Threesomes, i did it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 01:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: I'm gonna change you like a remix... All of the events of And In The End, I'd Do It All Again examined through a different lens.  What happens when just one decision is changed? Glimpses into how lives intertwine, set to music...





	1. I'd Do It All Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laudanum_cafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum_cafe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And In The End, I'd Do It All Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966330) by [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet). 



> Well, this happened. Finally. This is for my beloved Omega Twin, Laudanum_Cafe for her birthday. It is very, very belated because I am an awful Birb. Laudanum, my darling friend. My Patsy. Birb Queen. I want nothing in this world other than for you to smile. I know I am horrible with deadlines, and you absolutely knew this was coming but... it has always been for you, even before I knew it. Your love, excitement and endless exuberance over this fandom, and these ridiculous characters of mine bring so many people more happiness than can be explained. I want to write an essay, but I am already late, so... I love you to pieces. Thank you for letting me be in your life. You are a gift. 
> 
> Yes, things are the same, but I promise they don't stay that way. 
> 
> This has not been betaed, but Grammarly is my pal. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, y'all. I am awful at getting back to them but I will in time, promise. 
> 
> Aural satisfaction; "Irresistible' by Fall Out Boy

The bathroom wall was cold and hard, the tiles slick against the strip of skin that peeked out from where his shirt had ridden up. Ridden up may have possibly been a bit of an understatement; the garment had been yanked up, pulled out of his belt by greedy, desperate fingers that tugged on his clothes like they were offensive even as soft lips and slick teeth grazed of the sticky, sweaty skin of his neck as his head fell backward with a dull thump. He still had his hat on which was something of an improvement from the last time, and Patrick made a mental note to set it on the counter so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to bullshit about it getting crushed in flight again. There were only so many times that excuse would work and he was pretty sure that two was the limit. The effort to make excuses was wearing thin. Besides, what good was it when you weren’t hiding anything? 

Patrick really hadn’t intended on ending up here, not now. Not again. Not ever. And yet, he had, as always. Try as he might, he couldn’t say no to Pete, even if he had wanted to which he definitely did not. There was too much entwined in these stolen moments, there always had been. So, when strong hands had grabbed his hips and steered him, very pointedly through the nearest door he had known what to expect, at least somewhat. When the click of the lock echoed through the chemical scented, overly chilled air, he had been sure.

Pete was… Pete, same as he had always been. Magnetic on stage, his words echoed back at them by the fans that filled the arena. It was still surreal to Patrick, even after all this time, the power that was woven into the lyrics that he sang, night in and night out. Not surprising at all, this was Pete Wentz for fuck’s sake, just surreal. 

“Fucking on fire tonight, Jesus fucking Christ.” The words were accompanied by a sharp nip against the soft skin of Patrick’s neck and if he had been paying better attention, he would have put a fucking stop to that because collars were a bitch; he had gotten more than his fair share of that while touring for Soul Punk, thank you. But Pete was Pete, and he had always had a thing for leaving marks. Usually, though, they were in places that were a bit more inconspicuous; stinging red marks from bites along his chest, bruises sucked over his hipbones or pressed in perfect formation against his thighs. Once he had left the skin on his ass raw and tender, mottled with deep reds and purples; it wasn’t painful, per se, just a bit awkward, especially on a tour bus. 

The thoughts that coasted through Patrick’s head were shoved away by a warm, rough-skinned hand sneaking beneath his waistband to stroke his rapidly hardening cock, his mind going blank as he felt Pete grin against his neck. 

“For me?” 

It took everything in Patrick to glare, but he managed. His retort was on the tip of his tongue, although his usual wit was thwarted by the wandering hands that caused a tremor that couldn’t be hidden. “No, Joe. What do you think? And can we maybe stop doing this in a fucking bathroom- fuck.” The words vanished on a moan as Pete yanked on his jeans and boxers, shoving the hastily around his thighs as Pete sunk to his knees, that goddamn smile that Patrick loved pulling at his lips and whiskey eyes dancing with desire. There was very little that could be said in this moment, and so Patrick darted his tongue out to wet his dry lips and threaded his fingers in Pete’s short hair with a nod. He didn’t trust himself to not get sappy, not right now, and bit down to stifle a cry as Pete didn’t waste any time in sliding his lips down over Patrick’s cock. 

His fingers twisted and pulled at short dark strands, and blunt nails scraped along Pete’s scalp as he guided the familiar head into an easy bob, just this side of too fast and too rough. It may have been Patrick getting his dick sucked, but he absolutely was not in charge, not in the slightest, and that didn’t bother him in the slightest. He never was one for being a frontman, he wasn’t good at taking charge and he may not have wilted or hidden from that responsibility as much as he once did, but there was something about Pete, there had ALWAYS been something about Pete, that had Patrick couldn’t help but submit to, at least a bit. There were times that it was more than others but it was always on his terms, or at least planned ones. 

Patrick’s groans grew louder, echoing off of the walls of the hidden bathroom somewhere in the depths of winding halls in Cincinnati or St. Paul or wherever it was they were tonight; white walls and metal doors tended to look the same after so many years. Granted, it was an upgrade from truck stop stalls, so that was a plus. Pete moaned pointedly around Patrick’s cock, his nails stinging as they dug into round thighs, pulling Patrick’s attention back down to him because, well… Pete was Pete. When the warm wetness of Pete’s mouth vanished, Patrick pouted, barely hiding a whine, even as Pete closed his lips over two of his fingers, pointedly sucking on them and absolutely making a show of it, in true Pete fashion. 

“Jesus Christ, just fucking do it would you- Fuck!” There was no hesitation as Pete slid his fingers, spit-slick and familiar, past the tight pucker of Patrick’s ass at the same time he took his cock back in his mouth. If it was possible to smirk while giving head, Pete was doing it. 

After over a decade of this, they knew each other well, better than anything, actually. Patrick was, as always, putty in Pete’s very capable hands, his hips pushing back against his fingers and rocking forward into his mouth, the pace erratic as Patrick moaned almost wantonly into the empty air, yanking at Pete’s hair even as his fingers worked, expertly opening him up. 

And then there was nothing. No probing fingers, not hot, warm suction, nothing but warm, familiar eyes and a smile reserved just for him, lightly stubbled chin slick with drool. 

“Counter.” The word was more a command than a request and Pete sat back on his heels, the palm of one hand pressed tightly to the crotch of his jeans as he tilted his head towards the row of sinks to their right. Patrick didn’t bother questioning, or even pulling up his pants any more than he had to, just sliding past Pete and towards the cold, faux-granite counter. He did, however, take his hat off, setting it on a paper towel far from where it could get crushed or wet. A brief moment of clarity. 

Patrick avoided looking up, he knew exactly what he would see in the shining surface of the mirror and it wasn’t pretty right now. Pete, for his part, tugged on Patrick's pants and boxers, shoving them down somewhere around his knees, and trailing callous roughened fingertips over pale skin for just a little bit longer than necessary. 

The tear of foil and a tease of sticky lube over his ass had Patrick smiling, however slightly latex covered dick had him smiling, just a bit as he opened his eyes to meet Pete’s gaze in the mirror, not able to look away even if he wanted to. 

“Where in the fuck were you keeping that?” Pete was still dressed in his stage clothes, sweaty and tight enough as to hide very little, and he just smirked, pressing the blunt head of his cock against Patrick’s hole while steadying another hand on his hip. 

“Don’t question Trick, just enjoy, okay?” There was a smile to Pete’s words, and no small amount of affection as Pete pushed forward, groaning until he was fully pressed inside Patrick, fingers digging into lightly curved flesh. 

Patrick didn’t question, he couldn’t even if he had wanted to. Rational thought was gone, as always, replaced by echoes of more, now, again, harder, all bounding in his mind, and slipping, mumbled through his lips. It was the same, always the same, but never repeated. Elegant fingers and sweaty palms slipped on the same cold counter in a different strange city, pants and moans echoed off of walls that shone dull metal in the bright fluorescent lights, and Patrick bit back words that forever danced on the tip of his tongue while Pete babbled nonsense and curses, the usual poetry that he managed to create lost between the sounds of gasping breaths and the obscene slide of skin against skin. It was quick and dirty, always, and Patrick could almost feel himself coming nearly as soon as Pete’s free hand, still slightly slick with lube, closed around his cock. 

“Look at me, Trick….” The plea was breathy and wanton, needed and just for him, and Patrick couldn’t help himself. He looked. Not at himself, that was fairly easy to avoid by now, but at Pete. He had, as was his wont, shucked his clothes and his skin almost glowed in the lights, sweat beading up along the dark ink that he just wanted to lick. And his eyes… Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick was a goddamn hopeless mess; he lost himself in them every fucking time. A few practiced strokes of his hand and Patrick was coming, embarrassingly quickly, painting Pete’s hand and his own stomach with stripes of sticky white. Pete wasn’t far behind, another few forceful thrusts that left Patrick shaking and a groan ringing in his ears and he was done, collapsing over onto Patrick, all sweaty skin, solid teeth and hot breath against his neck.

He knew what was next, it never changed; it was a comfort to have some familiarity when everything was always in constant flux. There was a whimper caught in his throat as Pete slipped free, the muffled sounds and wet splat of the condom being tied off and tossed away and then a gentle rustle of clothes being tugged into place. 

Patrick didn’t move, not until there were hands on his now boxer clad hips, tugging him down to the floor, solid and sticky hot in Pete’s lap. It was always the same, always, and he pressed his face against Pete’s neck, closing his eyes and just relaxing in the moment. It should have been awkward, it should have been messy, it should have been so many things, but it wasn’t. It was comfort, and safety and, for the briefest of moments, bliss. No matter what anonymous town they were in, what color the counters were, or how many stalls were behind them, there was always that moment of home when he relaxed in Pete’s arms.  
Between fingers slipping through his hair, sweat wet and sticky and the fingers that played gentle scales along his spine, Patrick found home on a bathroom floor, every single time in Pete’s arms. But it was fleeting. 

A quick kiss, little more than a press of lips, and Patrick had to hold back the soft, sweet sounds that threatened to slip free a little harder as each day passed and turned into the hand that brushed over his cheek. 

“We gotta go Trick, Lauren …” Pete’s voice trailed off, lower than usual and tinged with something that couldn’t quite be placed, even as Patrick’s fingers twisted in his and squeezed just slightly. The metal was cold between his hot fingers, a silent and ever-present reminder of who exactly Pete was to him. The matching band rested on Patrick’s finger; simple and understated; never questioned and always slightly cool and perfect. Patrick just nodded, eyes closed, and took a deep breath, reveling in this moment for as long as he could until Pete wriggled out of his arms to get cleaned up. They had things to do. 

 

“Papa P-trick!” The very small voice echoed through the green room half an hour later as Patrick entered, freshly cleaned up, all traces of his earlier debauchery washed away. The tiny torpedo that threw herself against his legs was decked out in full Belle regalia, her wild blonde pigtails askew, one yellow ribbon long gone. Patrick smiled, of course he did. How could he not when the little girl looked up at him with her father’s eyes and that same smile. Aside from her coloring, there was nothing of Lauren in the little girl; she was all Pete. 

“Hey there, Molls. How’s my best girl?” There was nothing insincere about his joy as he addressed his adopted daughter, responding to her raised arms by picking her up and easily balancing her on his hip to get a sticky kiss on the cheek. 

“Good. I watched you and Daddy and Uncle Joe and Uncle Andy. Mama said that maybe I can watch more next time. But you did good and I saw your dance! And I told Nix all about what she could see but she was sleeping. Maybe she can watch you when she gets bigger. Babies are weird, Papa.” Molly was more than a bit enamored with all of her uncles, and there were a lot, but Patrick had a special spot in her heart, alongside both the little girl’s father and mother. Settling on the floor he immediately had a lap full of precious three year old who was babbling away happily about someone named Fancy Nancy and all of her adventures, with her parents watching on. Lauren, as always, had a sweet smile on her face; she was very nearly radiating serenity and calm, a perfect counterpoint to Pete’s constant energy. The tiny, pink wrapped bundle in her arms was quiet, somehow managing a sweet sleep despite the near chaos that surrounded her and her mother. It was probably a rare occurrence for any other child, but Nix, like Molly before her, was oddly calm, even amidst the chaos. A pediatric nurse, Lauren hadn’t even known who the band was when they had run into each other in a shitty little diner in Chicago. Two years later, there was a baby that was the most perfect, tiniest human being that Patrick had ever seen; five months ago there was another, just as perfect, if a bit smaller and paler. 

Seated in the middle of a crowded room, the air still buzzing with electricity and the constant hum of energy and conversation, Patrick found solace as Molly drifted off to sleep in his lap, her story lapsing almost mid-word as heavy eyes fell closed and her head dropped to Patrick's shoulder, his shirt clenched in her tiny fist. He could see Pete’s smile from here, warm and real and Patrick wondered not for the first time, or the last for that matter, what he had done to deserve this; whatever it was, he would do it all again.


	2. She's An American Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cough syrup, storms, and revelations in a dirty diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! This is more of a challenge than I had anticipated to the point where I am spending more time on the remixes than the original... I ain't even mad, Laudanum deserves all the time and joy EVER. 
> 
> This has not been betad because I am impatient and an asshole; I have reread it eleventy-seven times, however. So there is that. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, even if I am horrifically slow to reply. 
> 
> Aural pleasure: 'American Beauty/American Psycho' by Fall Out Boy

December 22, 2007

Samuel Beckett was wrong as fuck; You can go home again, but it will never be the same as you remember. Chicago was, and always would be, home to Patrick; he loved the city and when he came home, it was like breathing but it was never quite the same as when he had left, especially if he had been gone for a while. And a while it had been; Between the tours and the ridiculous promotions, the last year had been a goddamn eternity. 

It was cold, frigid even, and he felt like shit. His throat was scratchy and he could feel that tell-tale tickle in the back that said he was absolutely getting sick, no matter how much Pete tried to convince him otherwise, despite being well on the way to sick himself. He was certainly feeling well enough when he had shown up at Patrick’s door, amber eyes shining, cheeks flushed with cold and snowflakes sticking to his four day old flat ironed hair. It hadn’t made a difference as they stumbled through the house in the semi-darkness, leaving a trail of clothing and a series of crashes that Patrick had yet to investigate in their wake. Not a single fuck was given as they fell, quite literally, into Patrick’s bed, the twelve hundred thread count sheets clean and cool beneath dirty bodies; they didn’t stay clean for long, spattered quickly with that specific combination of sweat, come and drool that marked the vast majority of these encounters. 

Patrick loved these moments almost more than any others. There was too much tenderness in Pete’s voice against his ear, and the casual kisses pressed against his neck on stage were never wholly casual. ‘Kisses on the necks of best friends’ indeed. His own voice drifted through his head and he shook it away; There were more important things to focus on and he had, with a certain relish that only seemed to apply to Pete. 

Being sick had never stopped Pete before, and it didn’t seem to matter now, sitting at some greasy diner at an unholy hour of the morning as the snow outside kept falling. The place was kitsch as hell but in a wholly unironic way. Their coffee was good though, if a burned, and Patrick sipped his, too many sugars and far too much cream disguising the bitter bite, tempering the flavor with a stack of pancakes that were dripping with syrup, toffee chips, and banana chunks. 

Pete, however, was not quite as subtle. Once they had finished with their escapades and left Patrick’s bed an absolute disaster, with yet another set of sheets no doubt ruined, his voice had been a touch more hoarse than usual and his skin, although it always radiated heat like a fucking furnace, was hot to the touch, even though he quickly bundled up. Layers of t-shirts, henleys, and a scarf were topped off with one of Patrick’s own hoodies, one of the many Clandestine ones that had somehow found their way into his closet, hanging almost comically loose on Pete’s frame. He had literally drunk cough syrup from the bottle before they had come in and Patrick’s stomach had turned watching him down the sticky confection, the fake sweetness and artificial, medicinal cherry flavor clinging to his breath as he smacked a wet, sticky kiss against Patrick’s lips, burning hot against storm chilled skin. 

The bottle sat on the table now, dripping slowly down onto the dulled Formica in a sticky pool, piling up between swigs as Pete rambled on. He demolished his plate of food, greasy bacon, rubbery eggs and chocolate chip and strawberry pancakes laden with syrup laden with syrup and whipped cream tucked away between ramblings about album ideas and the aesthetics of… something. He had lost Patrick, for the most part, when he had started talking about his new design ideas. As much as he supported Pete, and he did with everything in him, there was only so much Patrick’s brain could keep up with, especially when the sun wasn’t due up for a few hours. 

There was a certain sheen to his eyes, a rapid and barely erratic rhythm to his speech that tugged at the back of Patrick’s mind and had fragments of Jeff Buckley playing slowly before he pushed it away; he refused to worry until he was sure. It could be mania, of course, that was always a possibility with Pete, but it could also be the cough syrup. Or, as always, it could have just been Pete being Pete. There weren’t any clues earlier, although Patrick had been rather hard pressed to focus on anything but Pete; hands, lips, tongue, and cock were all the most beautiful of distractions. 

“And so I was thinking that if we-” The rapid-fire speech slowed suddenly to a stop as the bells over the doors jingled and Buddy Holly playing overhead was eclipsed by the sound of very feminine giggles. Patrick couldn’t see who walked in, not without turning around, and he really wouldn’t have cared if it weren’t for the look on Pete’s face. 

Slightly glazed eyes grew almost comically wide and a toffee tinged hand, one that had trailed fucking perfectly along Patrick’s spine not even two hours ago swiped at a stray smidge of whipped cream that clung to the stubble on Pete’s chin. 

“Trick, look. You have to look. She’s kind of perfect.” Pete had no concept of an indoor voice on a good day; when he was impaired it was even worse. Sighing, Patrick set his fork down and twisted in the booth, the cracked vinyl squeaking beneath him until he could see where Pete’s gaze was trained.

Pete Wentz had a type and literally, everyone on earth thought they had known what it was. It wasn’t until an article ran in AltPress, a throwaway comment that had been very, very purposefully constructed, that that illusion was shattered. Pete’s type, although he was always open to admiring anyone and everyone, was Patrick, and for the most part ONLY Patrick. There had been a few flings over the years, always discussed beforehand and very much indulging in Pete’s exhibitionist streak. There were rules, and they were strictly followed and always ended well. He had been expecting the usual, a hot scene girl with flat-ironed bangs, too much eyeliner, collarbones and hips that jutted like knives. Knees and thighs exposed between the tops of high socks and the hem of a plaid skirt; echoing the expanse of flat belly between shirt and waistband. That was about as far from what he found as could be. She was pretty, in the most wholesome of ways, cute even. A pair of thick, strawberry blonde braids poked out from beneath a knit beanie and green eyes that crinkled with laughter were set in a pale, kind face. There was an ID clipped to her scrub top, although he couldn’t read it from here even on a good day, a white thing with red cartoon roses printed on it and a pair of black glasses sat perched on the tip of her turned up nose, that scrunched up as the frames were slid back up into place. Not a single sharp angle or jutting bone could be seen, even with the uniform in place. The sleeves of a black t-shirt ended at delicate wrists and there was not a bit of nail polish to be seen as she easily flipped over the chipped porcelain coffee cup. 

There was something familiar about her that nagged at Patrick even as he turned his back to her, glancing back up at Pete. He looked enthralled. It was fairly usual for Pete, he fell halfway in love with people almost constantly, but that was just how he was, how he had always been. It had almost become part of the ‘Pete Wentz experience’ as he had taken to calling it; more for eager show than anything else. His infatuation was always fleeting, with one exception. It never really mattered much; a month, maybe a few, and it was on to the next, sometimes it ended well, sometimes it didn’t and when the latter happened, it wasn’t just personal, it was global. 

“I think… what do I say, Trick?” There was an edge of something approaching panic in Pete's voice. Pete, the same man who openly mocked having his dick seem by the entire world and who openly outed not only himself but Patrick in the most casual of ways in what ended up being the most brilliant of ideas, was nervous about talking to a nurse in a nearly empty diner at three AM in the middle of a Chicago snowstorm. “I’m just gonna… maybe it’s the cough medicine but I’ll be right back.” He was gone in a blink, the oversized hoodie tossed in the empty booth and Patrick smiled as he watched him cross the small space, his Chucks squeaking on the linoleum. There was something about this moment, this night, that had caused a humming in Patrick’s bones; an almost ethereal feeling of change and importance hung in the grease-scented air. It was filed away for safekeeping, deep in the vault of Patrick’s mind and he sat back, blue eyes still trained on Pete and the pretty nurse and took a sip of his coffee, smiling at the steam as it fogged his glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat on tumblr, I don't bite.


	3. About To Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madison Square Garden, Revelations and the Death Of The Emo Haircut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very belated chapter three. I am so sorry, @Laudanum_Cafe, I had to nature last weekend and it resulted in pain and the need for medication that caused me to sleep. 
> 
> It may be late but... here you go. I hope you love it. 
> 
> This is more of a challenge than I had anticipated to the point where I am spending more time on the remixes than the original... I ain't even mad, Laudanum deserves all the time and joy EVER.
> 
> This has not been betad because I am impatient and an asshole; I have reread it eleventy-seven times, however. So there is that.
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, even if I am horrifically slow to reply.
> 
> Aural pleasure: 'Centuries' by Fall Out Boy

“Lauren is pregnant.” The words may have been spoken softly but they echoed louder than a shot in Patrick’s ears. Pete was never shy or subtle, ever, but there was something almost reserved about what he said, although the smile on his face, handsome and all teeth, was genuine; it reached his eyes, something Patrick hadn’t seen for nearly a year; right after Folie had come out. It was in Vegas, and the paparazzi was abuzz with Pete and his latest flame. If only they really knew. The funny thing was that they had everything they needed for a story right in front of them and they just didn’t refuse to see it. Lauren had been in white, just by happenstance. She was not a fan of the spotlight, although she had learned that it was part and parcel with being linked in any way to Pete Wentz. In lieu of the bachelor party that the tabloids had dreamed up, Pete had fucked Patrick in their hotel room while Lauren finished a ridiculous book about a baker detective in a bubble bath in the adjoining room. America’s Suitehearts indeed. The diamonds that had been speculated on since the band had set foot on the tarmac at McCarren were missing, however, although if they had looked just a little closer they may have noticed the glint of a chain beneath Patrick’s shirt, with the outline of a very distinct circle hanging from it. But then again, they weren’t looking at Patrick and he was okay with that. The new tattoo on Pete’s left hand somehow escaped notice, at least for now. 

There had been some in between, some real smiles of course, but they had been becoming increasingly rare. Folie had been a mess, at least reception wise; and that had hurt more than Patrick had been willing to admit. The tour was painful, quite literally, peppered with angry words from fans, people who had paid money to see them, screaming and booing any of their new songs. The stress fractures that had been forming over days, weeks, months years, were deepening into cracks that couldn’t be repaired. They had all seen it coming, it wasn’t a surprise. Tonight was it though, the last concert before a much-needed break. One more set; twelve songs and then he could breathe again; they all could. Minus the single song for Los Premios, that was it. They needed the break, all of them. 

It had been easy, up until now, to hide that fact, at least from anyone outside the band. Patrick had, over the last few years, become something of a master at hiding things, even from the people he was closest to; he had too. The idea of having literally every part of him exposed was just not something he could handle; there had to be something that was just his, a bit of happiness that he didn’t have to share with the rest of the world. Lazy moments in cramped bunks, quick kisses and leisurely fucks in hotel rooms across the world; those were his and his alone. Other people knew, of course, there was no hiding it, but Patrick cherished those memories almost more than any others. 

The rousing round of congratulations that echoed in the green room brought Patrick out of his slight haze and he shook his head with a bright smile as they all embraced and congratulated Pete who was going to be a father. Of all the things Patrick thought he would see, this was never it. He avoided Pete’s gaze as long as he could, but there was no missing his hand during their high five; he knew Pete’s fingers nearly as well as his own, the calluses and their length, surprising for a small guy, how clever they were and how fucking perfect they felt as they pushed into his ass, or trailed along his cheek in softer moments. Patrick yearned for them, for a moment of their own to celebrate. 

It was the usual chaos as they made their way to the stage, and that fear slowly gave way to anticipation, of familiarity that he was eternally grateful for. Catching Pete’s eye for just a moment, a blink even, before they headed to the stage, time seemed to slow in that elastic way that it only has in moments that really matter; everything melted away and for just an instant he was sixteen again, getting ready to play in a goddamn cafeteria at DePaul, with Pete smiling encouragement. And then it was gone in the span of a heartbeat and he was hustled to the stage. Twelve more songs. Just twelve. 

The countdown kept him going and he subtracted after each song faded into the applause Each one was a little harder than the last to sing; the words suddenly meaning more or less than they ever had before. The lights that glinted off of Pete’s smile were suddenly stupidly bright and Patrick had to fight the emotion in his voice more than once. Fucking Pete. It probably didn’t help that he could see Lauren on the side of the stage, smiling and almost ethereal. She was such a good person, one of the best Patrick had in his life outside of the band and he just wanted to be able to tell her that. 

The banter was easy, or so it seemed, but there was a forced edge to it that maybe only Patrick could hear. 

Sugar. Headfirst Slide. Arms Race. Don’t Stop Believin’... almost done. Two…. Saturday. Just one more. 

And then Pete was talking. And there was a chair and… what the fuck? Shaving his head. Fucking Pete. 

Patrick ignored him, as much as he could anyway and started playing. It wasn’t right, at all, playing Saturday without Pete but what the fuck else could he do? He spared glances on occasion, watching as hunks of dark hair fluttered to the stage and the girls in the pit wept, fjords of black eyeliner trailing down pale cheeks. Pete was the consummate showman, after all, red solo cup and smooth head accompanying his smile. 

He only approached Pete once, muttering words that nobody would hear, a promise just for Pete, before moving away again. And then it was done, all of it, except for the echo of the crowd. There should have been a weight lifted off his shoulders as he handed his guitar off and pulled out his in-ears; there was not. 

Not as he made his way through the dark to the green room, not when Joe nearly brayed with laughter, the slightly high pitch giving away just how much he had drunk, certainly not when Pete and Lauren came in. She was glowing and Patrick was a little in awe as Pete pressed a kiss to her cheek and she rubbed his head with a laugh. Dropping his water in the nearest trash can, Patrick caught Pete’s eye for the briefest of moments and headed out of the room with no excuse. 

He just needed quiet, just a little bit, just for a minute. The halls seemed labyrinthine and never-ending as he wandered, his shoes squeaking against shining floors. 

Respite was found, as it had been so many times over the years, in a bathroom. Empty and smelling of disinfectant, the dull metal of the stalls and fixtures glowing almost surreally in the fluorescent lights. It was disturbingly familiar, the ease that Patrick felt in strange fucking bathrooms. It was also a testament to how fucking far they had come; graffiti covered and piss-reeking bathrooms in truck stops to Madison Square Garden. This was supposed to be the highlight of his goddamn career and here he was, right back where he always ended up. Salt stung his eyes and he blinked the tears back as much as he could and then the door opened, the hinge far squeaker than it should have been, and then, only then, were things right again.

“Trick.” The nickname was one that turned his stomach coming from anyone else but from Pete, well… from Pete it was allowed, almost anything was. 

“What.” His voice didn’t shake and for that Patrick was proud, but he still couldn’t make himself turn around, staring blankly at the mirror in front of him as he tried to make sense of all of the changes that lay ahead; and of the things that wouldn’t. 

“I didn’t- you left.” Pete’s voice was small, almost frighteningly so, and when his hand rested on Patrick’s waist, he started, jerking away and hitting his hip against the counter. It would leave a bruise, and Patrick would, no doubt, poke at it for longer than was necessary; he always did. Taking a long breath and closing his eyes, Patrick exhaled heavily before turning around to face Pete, exhausted in every way. It was so strange. 

“You’re gonna be a-” The kiss was unexpected and exactly what he knew was going to happen. Pete’s hand gripped his hip as the other slid behind his neck both pulling him close and pressing him back to the counter. Patrick didn’t fight it, he couldn’t, and his small whimper was lost against Pete’s mouth as his hand brushed over the strange feeling fuzz that covered Pete’s head, almost lost without the usual mess of greasy, slick straight dark hair to pull. 

“Nothing is going to change, Trick. Nothing.” 

He allowed himself that, just the one moment, all of it. He was immersed in Pete, wholly so, inside and out; surrounded by him even as he was in his veins; everything was about Pete, it always had been. Calloused fingers slipped over a stubbled jaw, ghosting over smooth skin for an instant and then it was gone. They had things they needed to do, duties that were required; pictures and ridiculousness. “I just… can we go home?” The words echoed in the air as Patrick, suddenly feeling all of sixteen years old again, met Pete’s gaze. The smile he received in return was soft and sweet, a quiet nod and Pete’s hand in his before he pulled open the door and headed back into the empty, cold hallway, walking slowly back towards the beginning of the end of everything that they had known for the last eight years, hand in hand.


	4. Between The Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids are definitely alright. Late night doorbells, long flights, and some surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this happened. you know when you have a scene in your head and it just plays itself over and over like a movie until you write it down? Especially when you are trying to fall asleep? That is this chapter. I have had it in my head for MONTHS and it was the first thing that came to mind when I thought of this remix. I don't know if I did it justice but... I tried. 
> 
> Not beta'd but Grammarly is my BFF. 
> 
> For my beloved Omega Twin Laudanum_Cafe on the anniversary of her birth. This was always yours and I hope you enjoy it.   
> All the love and thanks to the Birb Pack for their unending support, love, talent, and patience. I am not worthy. 
> 
> Aural pleasure; 'The Kids Aren't Alright' by Fall Out Boy

March 2, 2012. 

The sound of the doorbell ringing pulled Patrick’s attention from the from Pete’s mouth, which was saying something. Having Pete down on his knees was absolutely one of Patrick’s favorite past-times. It wasn’t the actual ringing that caught his attention, that was frequent enough;he had been nearly subsisting on delivery salads and noodles from his favorite Thai place for a week; he hadn’t actually left his townhouse in three days, unless you counted opening the door for an eternally cheerful delivery guy leaving or closing it behind Pet; Patrick didn’t. It was the hour that got him. Yes, people had shown up knocking, many of them actually. Every single one had been willfully ignored save for Pete. Then again, Pete had a damn key; he just knocked when he was playing at having manners. It wasn’t as though Patrick was pretending he wasn’t home, his car was in the driveway and the lights were on. There had been music loud enough to be clearly heard by the neighbors that he knew wouldn’t care on more than one occasion he just… hadn’t wanted to see anyone. 

But now… it was, if the clock on the wall was correct, two seventeen in the morning and Patrick was really kind of involved in having Pete tug on his pajama pants while Bowie crooned on the record player but… it was just past two in the morning and his doorbell was ringing. There was exactly one person in the entire world that it could be, and he was actually in front of Patrick, all honey eyes and sly smiles which was yet another item on the endless list of reasons why he should not move. But then again, that was also the only reason that he wanted to. 

“Answer the door, Trick” Pete’s words were mumbled against Patrick's thigh, soothing a sharp nip with a swipe of his tongue before tugging Patrick’s pants back up and plopping back on the couch. Patrick huffed, glaring daggers and dropped the blanket he had been wrapped in, the softest one he owned that wasn’t on his bed; swirling paisley in shades of honey and amber that wasn’t a reminder of anyone specific, it was NOT, and ran a hand through his messy hair as he made his way to the front door. 

There was snow falling thickly outside, blanketing the world in white and silencing everything that would normally make a sound. It was beautiful and cold as fuck. The temperature difference as he tugged the door open fogged his glasses up almost instantly and he blinked, wrinkling his nose in frustration before yanking them off. It was cold as fuck, although the wear thin t-shirt and flannel pants did little to fight the freezing temperatures. Wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt, more as an excuse than anything else, Patrick waited until they were back in place on his nose before finally, finally looking at his late night visitor. 

“Ren.” Surprise colored his tone as he took in the woman on his front steps. Laren’s cheeks were pink from the cold and snow was sticking in fat flakes in her hair as it hung messily over her shoulders. A bag sat by her side, emblazoned with some cartoon character that Patrick didn’t know the name of and she looked worried, despite the slightly glazed look in her eyes. 

Not a word was spoken as Patrick stepped back, nodding in silent invitation and his guest followed suit, closing the door just as the music clicked over to silence, because of course. 

“Rick.” Her voice was soft and she only spoke after the door clicked shut and her bag, of Molly’s more likely, was leaned against his hallway table. 

“What are you doi-oof!” Patrick’s words were cut off as Lauren very nearly tackled him, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug that Patrick couldn’t help but return. Next to Pete and the band, Ren had somehow become one of his dearest friends and Jesus fuck had he missed her since she and Pete had been in LA; he didn’t even realize how much. The lingering cold seemed to seep through his meager clothes and he shifted to hug her tighter as if that would somehow chase away the chill. Probably not his best thought out plan. Her giggle was high and light as Patrick looked down at her and noticed exactly how rosy her cheeks were. 

“Good champagne on the flight?” He was teasing, fighting an outright smile even as she laughed, bobbing her head. 

“You know I hate to fly.” She really did, and never hid that fact from anyone, so she made the best of it, usually liberally partaking in whatever cart service Pete’s credit card could buy; she yet here she was at some unholy hour, hours and miles from her home. 

“I know you do, thank you, Ren.” The words were simple and honest; the truest ones he had spoken to anyone but Pete. 

“Welcome, Rick. Now there is either a flashlight in your pocket, you are really excited to see me or the father of my child is here, probably on his knees.” Lauren never pulled any punches, especially when she was pleasantly tipsy and Patrick felt his ears go pink. 

“Two out of three ain’t bad.” Pete’s voice echoed from somewhere deeper in the house than the hallway and Lauren giggled. 

“Which two?” There was laughter in her tone, sweet and soft, as she pushed up on her tiptoes to brush a kiss against Patrick’s cheek.

“Oh shit, PLEASE tell me I am interrupting something, pretty please.” Pete’s voice was eager as he leaned against the doorframe to the living room and Patrick flicked his gaze over to him as Lauren insouciantly flipped him off. 

“Hi, Peter. And what exactly would you be interrupting, hmm? And which two?” Lauren had been tugging at her hat and scarf, clumsy fingers hidden behind chunky mittens and movements just slightly dulled by the buzz she must have gotten on the plane. 

“Well, it looked, from this angle anyway, that you were about to kiss My Patrick. And I would never want to stop that; he deserves all the affection as long as I can watch.” Pete spoke plainly, batting away Lauren’s hands as he tugged off her hat and scarf followed by her mittens before setting them on top of her suitcase. There was something knowing twinkling in his eyes and a sly smile playing on his lips. Patrick knew exactly what he was thinking as he helped Laurent out of her coat. “And believe me I want to. Can I, Laur, pretty please?” Pete’s nose was at her ear, and his smile was all bright teeth and filth. “I mea-” He stopped talking then, or went selectively mute, Patrick wasn’t sure, mostly because he didn’t give a shit. Laugen had tugged on Patrick’s shirt, pulling him down to meet his lips in a kiss. It had been a while since Patrick had been even remotely intimate with a woman, Pete tended to be on the more open side of whatever spectrum it was that they had been assigned, but he was not complaining. Lauren was soft and smelled like vanilla cookies and he could just barely taste the slight tang from the champagne she had drunk that clung to her lips. 

“Jesus Christ.” Pete sounded kind of awed as Patrick almost reluctantly pulled away from Lauren, and looked over her shoulder with a raised brow. “You two could be fucking twins which is something I never thought I would want to see but fuck. Please?” His voice was uncharacteristically quiet and almost a whisper, or as close to one as Pete got. It wasn’t Patrick’s decision to make, however, and he slipped two fingers under Lauen’s chin, tilting her head up to meet her gaze with an unspoken question. The answer, as it would turn out, would also go unspoken as she just nodded, tugging Patrick down for another kiss and tugged at his shirt. 

It was exactly like Patrick remembered it but, at the same time, better, more, everything. Any hesitation or doubts he may have had disappeared as cold hands slipped over his warm skin. Even as infuriatingly goddamn cold as it was, the easy curve of Lauren’s small hands beneath the waistband of his pants and down over his ass was welcome. Patrick ’s hiss of surprise at the drastic temperature change died off into a moan as Lauren pulled away, trailing wet kisses along Patrick’s jaw. Fuck. Trembling hands pushed and pulled and threw, sweaters and coats and all of the other ephemera of a Chicago winter scattering along the polished hardwood of the entryway. 

Lauren was petite, smaller than Patrick even, and it was a very welcome change as she squirmed out of her jeans, and kicking off her boots in a way that was opposite of graceful, but endlessly endearing. Patrick spared a glance up at Pete’s face, silhouetted in shadow and the dull blue light coming from the television behind him. The years had been kind to him, as had fatherhood and Patrick fucking cherished every moment he got to spend with him, even the unconventional ones. That thought was one that was pushed away again, hard and fast, as he   
His pants were slid down to his ankles and Lauren lowered herself to her knees, looking up for the briefest of moments through the messy hair that hung in her eyes and over her shoulders, tangled from travel, her hat and Patricks hands. 

Patrick ’s touch was gentle as his fingers slipped over Lauren’s cheek, tender almost, and the same emotion was reflected in his eyes as she turned, ever so slightly into his hand.

Lauren leaned forward and took Patrick’s half-hard dick between her lips with no preamble. There was no need to pretend; no reason to act coy or surprised; They were all adults and while this situation was certainly new, it wasn’t one that was entirely a surprise. 

Patrick gasped, he always did while getting head, and Lauren alternated easy suction with sloppy licks until they were both panting, a feat which Patrick was momentarily impressed by considering Lauren had his dick in her mouth. His fingers were twisted tightly in Lauren’s soft hair, tugging lightly as she pulled back, the sound almost obscene in the unusual quiet of his house. 

Scrambling to her feet, Lauren all but pulled Patrick to the couch, pushing him lightly; she was deceptively strong. Pete, for once in his goddamn life, didn’t talk, instead settling on the coffee table and watching Patrick intently as he wriggled out of his baggy pajama pants, keeping his shirt on. 

Lauren bit back a gasp as she climbed on Patrick’s lap and The groan from Pete as she lined up and slowly lowered himself onto Patrick’s cock was music, and ecstasy and fucking home all at once. Patrick loved it, and tucked his face against the curve of Lauren’s neck as she moved, small and soft, his warm hands tight over her hips. 

It was amazing, it always was; years of friendship and an intimacy that could only be from being so damn close was almost too much. The ache of knowledge that maybe this isn’t the best idea melted away after the first few thrusts of Patrick’s hips and soon, far sooner than either of them wanted to admit, the air was filled with broken moans, soft cries, and gasps and then Lauren collapsed against him, eyes closed and trembling as Patrick rubbed gentle circles against the small of her back as she whimpered, still coming down. 

“That was fucking gorgeous.” Pete’s voice was slightly wrecked and Patrick glanced at him just in time to see his hand swipe over a nearby blanket and the telltale white against the dark fabric of his pants. Patrick shook his head, fighting the need to laugh at how very Pete the response was revealed in the moment for as long as he could. He needed to move, to clean up, warm Lauren up a bit as they were both covered with think sheen of sweat, but for now, in this moment, he just took what he could, breathing in deeply and letting the moment wash over him. Just for now. 

It wasn’t until later when bare skin had been traded for worn flannel pants, and Pete’s shirt had been unceremoniously used to clean the mess between Lauren’s thighs as best as possible, that they all cuddled on the couch again, draped in blankets and Molly Ringwald yelling on the TV. 

“Well that was fun and we should definitely do it again soon but for now, you wanna talk about why you turned your phone off and haven’t answered your email in days?” The tone in Lauren’s voice had shifted dramatically and Patrick frowned, looking to Pete desperately for an answer and just getting a shrug in return. 

“Not right now. How’s Molly?” The subject change was abrupt probably playing more than slightly dirty but in the best way. He could almost feel Lauren perk up at the mention of the little girl that, quite frankly, owned all of their hearts. Lauren and Pete both babbled until the light that peeked through the windows shifted to the pale grey of early morning and they all fell asleep, tangled in the blankets and, a bit more messily, with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr. I will fangirl over you.


End file.
